


Par for the Course.

by captnalbatr0ss



Series: The Captain and his Quartermaster [22]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:42:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7970035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captnalbatr0ss/pseuds/captnalbatr0ss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam takes Rafe on a mini-golf date. | Rafe’s keeping score, but Sam just wants to help him work on his swing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Par for the Course.

* * *

“Where the hell are we?” Rafe removed his sunglasses, hooked them on his shirt, raising a brow as he took in the establishment. “It smells like...old popcorn and grease.”

“That’s just the hotdogs.” Sam grinned. “And the old popcorn. C'mon, it’s gonna be fun.”

Rafe sighed, glanced up at Sam, who flashed his brightest smile.

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

“Well now, that’s the spirit.” Sam rolled his eyes, but his smile didn’t fade. 

Sam threw an arm around Rafe’s shoulders and tugged him close, pressing his lips to Rafe’s temple with an unapologetically loud smack.

Rafe tolerated it for a moment, then pulled away as Sam headed to the counter. He meandered out of the entryway, around the corner—into a small room with old arcade games, pinball machines, an air hockey table. A strange melody of tunes, of lights and colors.

“Hey.”

Rafe turned, and Sam was there, holding out a well-used golf club and a lime green golfball.

“Mini golf. I should’ve known air hockey wouldn’t be outdoorsy enough for you.” Rafe took both, and followed Sam outside.

The course was bigger than Rafe thought it would be, and it felt even more so because they seemed to have the place to themselves. Not wholly surprising, Rafe decided, considering it was the middle of a week day.

Each hole had some sort of whimsy to it. A part of the charm, a part of the challenge. A windmill, its blades slowly turning, every so often obscuring the tunnel the ball needed to go in. A scaled down replica of the Eiffel Tower straddled one strip of green, more of a distraction than a real challenge.

_Still_ , he thought,  _I suppose it’s a bit amusing._

Rafe stopped when Sam did, at the hole marked 1.

“It’s too nice a day to spend it indoors, is all. So, you pick. You first or me?”

“You. Somebody’s gotta ‘show me how it’s done’, right?” Rafe’s lips quirked up in a wry smile.

“You got it, boss.” Sam winked, stepped up to the mark, dropped his ball and stilled it with his foot, nudged it into place. “You really never played this before?”

“No. For the last time, Sam, no. Is there a reason you keep asking me?”

“Just surprised, is all.” Sam shrugged. “Figured you’d have at least one exclusive country club membership.”

“Of course I do. But that doesn’t mean I golf. Now shut up and quit stalling.”

Rafe put his sunglasses back on, and he rested the end of his golf club against the ground as if it were a cane.

“A'right, here goes nothin’.” 

It was an easy enough play—more or less a straight shot to the hole. Just a few hills, a slight angle.

“While we’re young—well, while  _I’m_  young.”

“Ah, shut yer yap, Adler.”

Sam lined up his club, closed one eye and adjusted his grip, then swung—not too hard, not too soft. Just right.

The ball rolled, bumped, and stopped just about a foot away from the hole.

“Not bad, old man.”

“You better watch your mouth, you.”

Sam scowled, but his eyes were bright and when Rafe stepped forward to take his turn, Sam settled in behind him, his hands lighting on Rafe’s hips.

“What’re you doing?” Rafe glanced at Sam over his shoulder and Sam did his best to look innocent even as his eyes told a different story.

“You said you’ve never done this before. Somebody’s gotta help you work on your swing.”

Sam pulled Rafe back slightly, their bodies flush as he leaned over him, slid his palms down Rafe’s arms to cover his hands on the club.

Rafe rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “What a gentleman.”

Sam tipped his head forward, his forehead pressed to Rafe’s hair as his breath ghosted across Rafe’s nape. “I aim to please.”

“Watch yourself, Drake.” But Rafe shivered nonetheless.

“C'mon. Like this. Widen your stance a little. Here—” Sam nudged Rafe’s foot with his own until he was happy with the placement of Rafe’s feet. “You wanna keep your feet steady and your hips loose.”

“Are we still talking about golf, or are you feeling feral already?”

“Ay, don’t flatter yourself. I just appreciate the subtleties of a good…stroke.” Sam’s hands tightened over Rafe’s. “Make sure you got a firm grip.”

Rafe nodded, tested the pressure of his hands against the handle of the club. And then he shifted his hips back against Sam’s. “I always have a firm grip, Samuel.”

“Hardy-har-har.” But Sam’s face lit up, enjoying Rafe’s playful banter. “Okay. Now, whenever you’re ready, you wanna swing. But not too hard, a little bit goes a long way when it comes to miniature golf.”

“What’re you, some kind of expert?” But Rafe followed Sam’s instruction, drew back, swung.

He was right on target, and his ball followed nearly the same path as Sam’s, rolling to a stop just behind Sam’s ball.

“Nah, just done my fair share of mini golfing. That was a nice shot, babe.”

Sam kept one arm around Rafe’s waist as they walked to the other end to finish the first hole.

Sam made sure not to bump Rafe’s golfball as he positioned himself, and with the lightest of taps he sent the ball into the hole.

“Your fair share, huh? So you were, what, a competitive mini golfer in between your stints in prison—”

Rafe stopped short, frowned. He’d only meant to joke about Sam as a teen; Sam’d told him of all the trouble he’d gotten into, and even reminisced about it fondly. But the big one, those many years in Panama— 

Suddenly Rafe felt a tug in the pit of his stomach, wished he hadn’t brought it up at all, even inadvertently.

If Sam was bothered, though, it didn’t show. And once again he moved behind Rafe, pressed close, and encouraged him to take the next shot.

Rafe closed his eyes and leaned back against Sam’s chest—and he always could, he knew. Somehow, Sam was always there, always willing, always a comfort—even when, by all rights, Sam could’ve been the one to need comforting.

Rafe’s focus not on his swing at the moment. It was on Sam’s strong heartbeat, constant. Reliable.

“Ay, you can’t swing club like that.” Sam’s hands moved from Rafe’s hips, wrapped around his middle.

Rafe leaned his head back against Sam’s shoulder, his eyes still closed. “I’m sorry.”

Sam tightened his grip on Rafe, brushing his lips against Rafe’s earlobe. “For?”

“The, uh, the prison comment. I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” Sam’s arms moved again, and one palm remained flat against Rafe’s abs, the other slid up his chest, came to rest over his heart. “It’s okay baby, I knew what you meant.”

Rafe exhaled slowly, the steady warmth of Sam against him relaxed him, and he was grateful for it.

“It was one of my odd jobs,” Sam continued. “Working at a place like this. On slow days if I finished collecting all the lost balls, my boss’d let me play a few holes. I got kinda okay at it.”

Rafe opened his eyes, smiled. He imagined Sam as a teen, slinging sodas and hot dogs, hunting around for stray golfballs, and the thought made him chuckle.  
Rafe gently tapped his ball into the hole, stooped down to collect both his and Sam’s.

“Nice.” Sam grinned his approval.

The first half of the course was easy, they each took roughly the same amount of swings—except for the third hole, where Sam had gotten a hole in one.

By the time they reached the fifth, Sam noticed that Rafe had started to pencil in numbers on their score card— _they were currently tied—_ and he bit back the triumphant chuckle that bubbled in his chest. Rafe was really getting into it.

_Competitive by nature_ , Sam thought, and it suited him just fine because the more intent Rafe became on his shots, the longer he took to ready himself. The more time Sam got to spend pressed close and with a firm grip on those hips as he tugged Rafe back against his, and life was good.

Rafe was a fast learner. His hand-eye coordination was excellent, had always been excellent as far as Sam knew, so it made sense. And he had a remarkable awareness of his body—incredible control.

_Mini golf_ , Sam thought.  _Only Rafe Adler could make it look so intense, precise._

He was behind Rafe again, and his grip on Rafe’s hips was loose. Unnecessary at this point, because Rafe had gotten the hang of it, but Sam didn’t care— _let Rafe worry about keeping score, this is what I’m here for._

Sam grinned as Rafe moved to swing, let one hand slip to Rafe’s thigh, and around to the juncture, and Rafe’s form faltered.

“Sam.”

“Hmm?” Sam nibbled along Rafe’s neck, his hand dutifully retreating from thigh to hip.

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

Sam closed his eyes, gently tugging the collar of Rafe’s shirt over, attaching himself to newly exposed skin. “Mmhm.”

“Well, st— mm…” Rafe’s head dropped forward, and his next breath came slow, elongated. “ _Stop_  that. That's—its—”

“What, baby? Tell me.”

Sam gently coaxed Rafe’s fingers until they relaxed, prompting Rafe to let go of the handle. He heard the golf club hit the ground, and he bit down harder, marking Rafe’s skin eagerly.

“It's—mmn, Sam… There—might be other people out here.”

“There aren’t.”

“But—”

“Rafe. Trust me.”

Sam gently urged Rafe to turn in his arms, and once he did Sam leaned down and stole the last lingering protest right from Rafe’s lips, replaced it with a soft sigh and a moan, and Rafe opened for him easily.

Sam’s arms wrapped tight around Rafe’s waist, and Sam felt Rafe’s fingers in his hair, gripping tight, pulling him deeper.

Sam ran one hand down Rafe’s thigh, hitched his leg up, and damned if Rafe wasn’t blushing. Sam grinned against his lips, tipped him back slightly, forcing Rafe to cling to his shoulders even though Sam knew he’d never drop him.

Sam sighed as Rafe leaned his head back, exposing his neck, which Sam was only too happy to plunder. He brushed his lips over Rafe’s throat, felt his pulse, fast. Heard his breath, heavy. Sam continued up, nibbled just below the strong line of his jaw.

Rafe’s fingers dug in to Sam’s shoulders, fisted handfuls of Sam’s shirt.

“Sam—?”

Sam felt the pull, Rafe relaxing in his arms, using his downward draw of his weight to suggest he wouldn’t be opposed to being laid down.

Sam, lips still insistent on tasting Rafe’s skin, risked a glance around again—

_Where can we go? Is there a spot we can_ —

But then Rafe leaned up, silently begging for Sam’s mouth again, and Sam was helpless to refuse. Their lips met, the battle for control already over—Sam felt it in the easy movement of Rafe’s body; he’d relinquished it, given all over to Sam, and knowing that—sensing it, it lit a fire at Sam’s core. 

But it always did,  _always the same_ , and suddenly Sam felt greedy because he wanted more, more than just Rafe’s lips and tongue, his hands. Wanted all.

Sam edged them away, both their clubs forgotten, and after one too many near-accidents involving a clash of their shuffling feet, Rafe’s arms tightened around Sam’s shoulders and he hopped up, locking his legs around Sam’s hips.

It wasn’t the first time, but it still called up a low moan from deep in Sam’s belly, his hands dropping to grip Rafe’s ass, his thigh, securing him in place before ducking them out of sight behind one of the whimsical pieces toward the back—the front facade of a castle. A soft breeze caught the banners perched atop the twin turrets. The whole thing was barely classifiable as 3D, but it was wide enough, tall enough, secluded enough.

Better than that, it was roped off—the only hole on the course under repairs. Sam could see a handwritten sign;  _Closed by Royal Decree!_

_Heh_ , he thought.  _Cute_.

There was a water feature, a moat, and the small plank, made to look like a drawbridge, had broken—no reason to tee up when a portion of the course was missing.

_Thank you, and your royal decree, Fairway Amusement Park._

They slipped past the rope, nearly knocking the sign off. And once behind the facade, Sam took them both down, settled Rafe gently against the bright green AstroTurf.

He pulled back, one hand resting on Rafe’s chest, which rose and fell quickly. Rafe licked his lips, tasting Sam there—spearmint and cigarettes. He reached up, fingers curling around Sam’s biceps as he encouraged Sam to continue.

Sam covered Rafe, a perfect fit against the angles of Rafe’s body, and his hands found the hem of Rafe’s shirt, began to push, groaning at the way Rafe’s body lifted to his touch.

Rafe stilled Sam’s hands, leaned up, his breath hot against Sam’s ear.

“Nice try, Drake, but if you think I’m gonna lay my bare ass on this turf, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Sam raised a brow, lazily grinding his hips against Rafe’s, sighing as Rafe’s eyelids fluttered. “A’right, let’s hear your solution then, Adler.”

“Switch places with me.”

“Oh, so  _your_  ass is too good for the green, but mine—”

“Samuel, shut up and get on your back.”

Sam laughed, rolled over, pulled Rafe with him. “Okay. Now what?”

Rafe scooted lower, nimble fingers quickly unbuttoning, unzipping Sam’s jeans. Sam hissed when Rafe slipped a hand into Sam’s boxers, freed his cock. 

“Take care of it,” Rafe said, and Sam knew immediately what he meant.

He spit into his palm, pumped his dick slowly, watching Rafe.

Rafe turned, straddled Sam’s hips, facing away. He braced himself carefully, tugged his pants down just enough—

“Mm. Fuck babe, commando?”

Rafe lifted one shoulder, a dismissive shrug. He peered over his shoulder at Sam, wet his lips. “Well?”

“It’s taken care of.”

Rafe adjusted carefully, lowered himself. Eyes closing, breath catching as Sam stretched him, filled him. 

“ _Jesus_ , Sam.” He inhaled sharply. “Thought you said you—took care of it.”

Sam frowned, brow furrowed. “I thought I—”

Rafe threw a playful look over his shoulder, one side of his mouth lifting in a sly grin as he settled against Sam, giving himself a moment to adjust.

“Ah, c’mon, don’t play around like that, you know I like to take care of you.”

“Couldn’t resist.”

Sam’s fingers ran up, down, tracing along Rafe’s spine, finally resting on Rafe’s hips and holding them still, thrusting up slow, deep.

“Mmm,” Rafe sighed. “Not like that, Sam. I’m not in the mood to get busted for fucking on a mini golf course.”

“Faster, eh? You got it, baby. But that means you gotta watch that pretty mouth of yours.”

Sam bucked up hard, and Rafe bit his tongue to combat the loud cry that threatened to slip past his lips.

“C’mon, sweetheart—” Sam steadied Rafe’s hips, began to thrust up steadily, drinking in the sight of Rafe, the muscles in his back as they tightened, the roll of his shoulders.

“ _Fuck_ , Sam—”

Sam watched behind heavy lids as Rafe lowered his hips in tandem with Sam’s upward thrusts.

The sight, the sensation made him hungry. It struck him again, as it often did, just how strong a craving he had for Rafe.

_Insatiable_.

Sam bent his legs at the knee, planted his feet for better leverage—he felt Rafe lean forward to accommodate Sam’s movement, his hands on Sam’s knees to brace himself as well—but the astroturf was too slick, and Sam’s foot slipped, sent Rafe tipping helplessly forward, more off balance than usual with his pants yanked down low—not even halfway down his thighs, pinning his legs together.

“Shit—” Sam laughed as Rafe rolled onto his side, looking slightly less than amused. “Sorry babe.”

“Hmph.”

Sam shifted, rolled, and raised up on his knees.

“C’mere, beautiful.” He grabbed Rafe firmly by the hips, tugged him up. “Bend— yeah. Yeah, that’s good, baby, just like that.”

Rafe groaned, resting his weight on his forearms, burying his face against the crook of his elbow as Sam’s fingertips danced across the small of his back, settled low, the pad of his thumb circling Rafe’s hole.

Sam spit in his palm again, pumped his cock a few more times as he slid two fingers in, seeking Rafe’s prostate just to watch his thighs shake.

“I love you, you know that?”

“Yes,” Rafe whispered, holding his breath as Sam moved behind him, buried himself deep.

“ _Ah!_ ” Rafe’s back arched, one arm stretched back and reaching blindly for Sam.

Sam met him halfway, brushed his hand against Rafe’s, then tangled their fingers, made sure not to put too much pressure on Rafe’s shoulder by pulling too hard—he kept his leverage at Rafe’s hip, fingers splayed against warm skin as he settled into a steady pace.

Rafe gave Sam’s hand a tight squeeze, then pulled it away, curled his fingers around his shaft and held his hand still, let the force of Sam’s hips, the forward motion fuck his hand.

The closer Sam got, the rougher his thrusts—fingers bruising the soft skin just below Rafe’s hipbones. Each hard stroke was greedy, demanding, hungry for every stifled groan and choked gasp.

One of Rafe’s hands balled into a fist, and there was a taste of urgency in the way he struck the ground, an impulsive action, but necessary to combat his desire to scream Sam’s name.

 Sam’s vision blurred, his belly tight. “Rafe—”

Sam pulled out, dropped a hand to his cock, but Rafe shifted, brushed Sam’s hand away, wrapped his lips around the sensitive head. He felt Sam’s hand move to the back of his head, forcing himself deeper into the heat of Rafe’s throat, and Rafe groaned as Sam let go with a low grunt. Rafe bobbed his head slowly, coaxing out all Sam had to offer. He let Sam slip from his mouth only when he felt Sam palm drop away from his head.

He watched Rafe, wet his lips as he pulled Rafe close, kissed him hard, then encouraged him to stand.

“Your turn, baby.”

Rafe braced himself on Sam’s shoulders, stood carefully, and Sam’s mouth was on him instantly.

Rafe dropped his chin to his chest, stroking his fingers through Sam’s hair as he swallowed every inch of Rafe, and when Sam felt Rafe’s legs shake, he wrapped his arms around Rafe’s thighs to steady him.

Rafe’s fingers tightened in Sam’s hair, pulled  _hard_  as he came, and Sam smiled as he tasted Rafe, careful to keep their mess to a minimum. He shifted back, licked his lips as he gingerly helped Rafe with his jeans, standing carefully and tucking himself back in as well.

He pulled Rafe close, slipped his hands in Rafe’s back pockets and kissed him.

Slow and lazy. 

“You, ah—” Sam chuckled.

“What?” Rafe raised a brow, and he would’ve looked unamused if Sam didn’t know the real reason for his tired eyes—sated.

“I got it.” Sam bit his lip, gently smoothed one rebellious piece of hair back.

“Hm.” But Rafe smiled.

Sam managed to detach from Rafe, peeking out around the edge of the wooden castle—their hideaway.

They were fortunately, blessedly, thankfully, still alone on the green.

Sam led them back to their clubs, discarded on the ground. He leaned down to pick them up, passed one back to Rafe.

“You didn’t lose the score card, did you?”

“No… why?”

“‘cause you gotta put me down for a hole in one.” Sam gave Rafe’s ass a hearty squeeze.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Well that’s par for the course.” Sam flashed Rafe a smile and retrieved their clubs.

They finished the rest of the 9 holes, Sam in a daze. Hard to concentrate on his swing when his eyes kept drifting back to Rafe. And hard to wipe the smile off of his face, chase the giddiness from his chest.

Rafe continued to keep score, but far less meticulously. He was more relaxed than Sam had seen him in a long time, enjoying the looks Sam kept throwing his way, happy to toss them right back.

An easy and playful flirtation that continued for the duration of the game. 

The last hole was a prize wheel. Near it, a place to leave the clubs. Sam scoffed, hands on his hips after taking his turn.

“This thing would’ve practically put me out of a job.” He tapped the contraption with the toe of his shoe. “Easiest part of the job was grabbing balls from the last hole.”

“Relax, Drake. Somebody’s gotta empty the wheel.” He flashed Sam a grin and tapped his ball in, rewarded by a flash of lights, the color of candy, that circled the perimeter of the prize wheel three times. A forgettable tune accompanied the display.

Sam held out an arm as Rafe stepped toward him, draped it casually over his shoulders as Rafe moved against him.

“What did you win?” Rafe angled his body toward Sam, both arms wrapping around Sam’s middle.

Sam slid his hand into Rafe’s back pocket. “Funnel cake.”

“Christ, I haven’t had funnel cake in…” Rafe’s eyes narrowed, he laughed. “I couldn’t even say. Years.”

“That settles it, then.”

Sam redeemed his prize, walked Rafe toward the parking lot, paper plate in one hand, a stack of napkins in the other. They detoured before reaching the car, to a grassy spot beneath a small cluster of trees.

They sat in the shade, sitting Indian-style across from each other, their knees touching, the funnel cake balanced precariously between them. They tore off pieces, fed them to each other, and Sam kept leaning over to kiss away stray bits of powdered sugar but he always left more behind than he cleaned up.

“Well, you gonna tell me, or what?” Sam asked.

The funnel cake was gone, only powdered sugar remained, and Rafe wet his finger, drug it through the remnants, brought it to his lips.

“Mmm?”

“What’d  _you_  win?”

“Oh.” Rafe laughed. “A free round.”

Sam waggled his brows lasciviously, dropped a hand between Rafe’s legs just long enough to tease him through his jeans. Rafe’s eyes widened, the hint of a blush returned to his cheeks.

“Eh, let’s save it. I got something else in mind I’d rather go round two on.”


End file.
